The Penniless Ex-Wife Is A Hidden Boss

The doorbell echoed inside the townhouse. Casey waited. Three seconds later, the heavy mahogany door was pulled open. A wave of expensive central heating and sweet vanilla perfume rushed out into the cold air. Halie stood in the doorway. She was wearing a massive white button-down shirt that clearly belonged to a man. The collar was unbuttoned, exposing the skin of her chest. There were faint red marks on her collarbone. Halie's eyes widened in shock when she saw Casey. Then, a slow, arrogant smirk spread across her lips. Halie reached up and deliberately pulled the collar of the shirt wider. "Casey? What are you doing here in the middle of the night? Are you stalking us?" Casey did not blink. She did not look at the shirt or the marks on Halie's neck. She looked straight past Halie's shoulder into the brightly lit living room. "Tell Bartholomew to get out here right now," Casey said. Her voice was completely flat. Halie shifted her weight and blocked the doorway with her body. She pouted her lips and adopted a fake, sympathetic tone. "He is asleep, Casey. He is exhausted. I am not going to wake him up just because you are having a breakdown." Heavy footsteps sounded on the wooden stairs inside. Bartholomew walked into view. He was wearing his dark suit trousers. He was aggressively buttoning his white shirt as he walked toward the door. He saw Casey standing on the porch. The muscles in his jaw instantly clenched. A flash of panic crossed his eyes, quickly replaced by intense, defensive anger. Bartholomew stepped up behind Halie and put his hand on her shoulder, physically shielding her from Casey. "Have you completely lost your mind?" Bartholomew shouted. His voice echoed down the quiet street. "You tracked me here? This is pathetic, even for you." Casey looked at his hand resting on Halie's shoulder. She felt absolutely nothing. It was almost funny how predictable he was. "Preston had a heart attack," Casey said. She spoke fast, delivering the information like a machine. "He is at Mount Sinai Hospital. He is in the emergency room." Bartholomew's hand dropped from Halie's shoulder. His body went completely rigid. He stared at Casey, his eyes searching her face. Then, he let out a harsh, mocking scoff. "You are lying," Bartholomew sneered. He crossed his arms over his chest. "I saw him last week. His doctors said his heart was perfectly fine. You are using my grandfather's health to trick me into talking to you?" Halie leaned her head against Bartholomew's arm. "Casey, that is really sick. You shouldn't curse an old man just because you are jealous." Casey's patience snapped. She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out her phone. She opened the text message Genevieve had sent her. It was a photo of the hospital admission form. She stepped forward, closing the distance between them. She shoved the phone directly into Bartholomew's chest, hitting his breastbone hard. "Look at it," Casey ordered. Her voice was ice. "Look at the red stamp. Then get in your car and go, before he dies thinking you abandoned him." Bartholomew grabbed the phone. He looked down at the screen. He saw the official Mount Sinai logo. He saw the red 'CRITICAL' stamp. He saw the signature of the chief cardiologist. All the color drained from Bartholomew's face. His skin turned ash white. His hands started to shake violently. The phone rattled against his fingers. The arrogant wall he had built completely collapsed. He shoved the phone back at Casey. He turned and violently pushed past Halie. Halie stumbled backward and hit the wall. "Hey!" Halie cried out, reaching for his arm. Bartholomew completely ignored her. He sprinted down the marble steps and ran toward the Maybach. He slammed his fist against the driver's window. "Start the car!" he roared at the sleeping driver. He ripped the back door open. He turned around and glared at Casey, who was still standing on the porch. "Get in!" Bartholomew commanded. Casey looked at him. She wanted to walk away, but she needed to know if Preston was going to survive. She walked down the steps. She walked right past Halie, treating the other woman like a piece of invisible trash on the sidewalk. Casey slid into the back seat of the Maybach. Bartholomew jumped in after her and slammed the heavy door shut. Halie was left standing alone on the porch, shivering in the cold. The driver slammed his foot on the gas. The heavy car tore away from the curb, the tires screeching against the asphalt. The inside of the car was suffocatingly silent. Bartholomew sat rigidly in his seat. He pressed his elbows into his knees and buried his face in his hands. His breathing was loud and ragged. Casey slid all the way to the opposite side of the leather seat. She pressed her shoulder hard against the cold glass of the window. She kept as much physical distance between them as possible, treating him like a diseased animal she refused to touch.